


Stains on cheap satin

by Thefacelesswriter



Category: Maxmoefoe - Fandom, My bathroom, The Filthy Frank Show (Web Series), hell - Fandom
Genre: Biting, Drag, Dresses, M/M, Sluggish handjobs, Sneaky drunken vomit, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:23:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7616155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/pseuds/Thefacelesswriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sloppy molestation of a drunk boy through the folds of his skirt. If you're offended by rude language then you need to get out of this tag there's nothing here for you, sweet child. For the rest of you dirty individuals, step right in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stains on cheap satin

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of terrible, but that's fine. I was going to place this up anonymously but then I came to the realisation I don't give a shit and if you're reading this story neither do you. Max looks delicious in a dress and make-up; that's my creative inspiration. If either of the men in this story ever come to read this I can only sincerely apologise. I also apologize for the layout. I'm still trying to get to grips with Archive. But anyway, sit back, relax, and get your window cleaner cocktail ready as you try to enjoy this fantastic atrocity of a tale. 
> 
> Also, there is a very big warning on offensive language. And some vomit. Also some dicks, or mention of them at least. You know they're there but you don't see them. Like the Loch Ness.

It was difficult to determine how fucked up the situation was at that point. Four shots of vodka tended to blur the lines enough that Max hadn’t yet tried to struggle dare he lose his balance or vomit violently or simply pass out. From the way Joji snogged it didn’t seem like he gave a shit about the very real possibilities as long as Max remained still. The situation they were in had scissor kicked over the realms of questionable behaviour and now squatted in the revolting territory of the absolute fucked. Really, it was the dress that cemented how filthy it really was.

Max continued to clutch the end of the counter in a white knuckled grip. Falling back would mean cracking the crown of his head through the cabinet mirror. From experience he knew that would end in all four of them traipsing to emergency, holding a bloody towel in one hand and the skirt of the dress in the other. But to fall forward, further into Joji’s perverted embrace, was even worse. There was no room to push past the horrifyingly horny Joji and make a feeble attempt to wobble back into the kitchen to watch Ian attack Views with the John Cena doll. At least that’s what he swore he could hear happening outside through the harsh breathing against his ear. Max felt the sink press hard against his ass, a solid reminder that even through the dizziness of drunkenness this shit was for real. He could curse himself as much as he wanted for not locking the fucking door before going for a sneak drunken vomit. It didn’t change the mouth sucking insistently at his sluggish lips nor the blatant hard-on being pressed against his thigh. Max flailed a little, attempting a coherent sentence (something along the lines of ‘You’re a drunk gay cunt get the fuck off me’), but Joji had taken a handle on the bust of his dress to keep him still and he heard the material begin to tear. Well fuck. 

Even prior the vodka –not forgetting the Coronas, the ten cigarettes, and a _fuck-tonne_ of Twisties- his friendship with Joji was far from conventional and really that’s where it flourished. It was an aborted atrocity of no-homo dick grabbing, mousetraps, homemade infernos, idyllic photographs, vomiting on one another’s shoulder, kissing like cam whores, and eating shit that belonged in the bin. Needless to say they were aligned creatively with a similar (sickly) sense of humour that could be summed up with a dead magpie skilfully posed on a Big Mac box. The collaborations were always interesting and interesting always climaxed with blood, or vomit, or a very grovelling conversation between Max and the landlord concerning the state of the kitchen. He’d been close to eviction since last November.     

Joji was still snogging him. That hadn’t changed. If anything he’d gotten more insistent at Max’s lack thereof, teeth clenched tightly together as he felt the swipe of a tongue against them that definitely wasn’t his own. He exclaimed in dislike, shaking his head, balance tipping. What a way to die, drunk and molested and wearing a dress. Joji took the hand from his head and held a thick clump of hair, pulling him close again. He would’ve taken stitches over this.

“Ow, fuck ow ow ow fucking stop!” Max yelled breathlessly before a hand slapped against his mouth. Childishly, he licked the palm through his glower.

“Shut the fuck up. Want the others to find you like this?” Joji demanded and Max, giggling at the thought of how much didn’t want that, shook his head. To be heard would mean the other two would venture to the bathroom to ask what the fucking noise was about. ‘Oh nothing, boys’ he imagined answering from behind the locked door ‘George’s just touching my dick. Did I mention I came here for a sneaky vomit? No?’ It was one conversation that wouldn’t keep its hilarious qualities once the morning came. Max was kissed again, this time remaining obediently quiet.

            Being kissed by Joji was downright weird. It wasn’t like kissing a girl or even kissing a friend. There was something inherently sexual about it, a ruthless intensity that came through every touch and hot breath. It wasn’t _bad_. Max couldn’t count on both hands (and feet) how many times he’d eaten something inconsumable so there wasn’t room for complaint. It wasn’t particularly _bad_ but it wasn’t something he particularly wanted. His free leg was fucking useless, unable to kick anything useful. The other remained pinned down by Joji’s knee; he was now reaching through the stained frills of his skirt and running a hand up his thigh. Max could only slip back, allow the splashes of water to sink into his skirt and his single heeled foot to kick upwards.

            “Get the fuck off me, you drunk bastard!” He exclaimed. Let everyone hear his shrieks. He was a damsel and this was freakishly out of line.  

            “You’re just a dirty little slut in that dress,” Joji growled. It was a deep, rolling drawl of words. A cruel hand pinched his cheek, “and those red lips. You want to suck my dick?”

“What the fuck, George!” Max was feeling a wave of epiphanies as to what was happening just as a wave of bile threatened to break free. (And he considered the thought of letting it loose. While Joji took vomit on the shoulder cackling, Max doubted he’d take it in his mouth without beating the everlasting shit out of him). Never in the five long minutes of sexual fumbling had he pondered _why_ , but now the answer was crystal clear. It was the dress. It has always been the fucking dress and everything that came with it. What had begun as a single, strange occurrence from pilfering the local op-shop had transcended into an expected trope of the videos. Max would be up against this very mirror, carefully applying the bargain bin lipstick with surprising concentration. There was something indescribably satisfying about putting on lipstick, similar to the relief of tearing off a scab. And with a dab of make-up and that all too familiar dress he looked like a good woman, almost _almost_ passable. Spare the fact he could never zip up the dresses.    

The realization that he’d become the group bitch was disheartening. Joji had moved his hand from his hair to snatch the pearls around his neck. The thread broke easily and cheap plastic scattered across the tiles. Max would be finding them under his feet for months afterwards. With each dirty white pearl he would find the memory would return and he would wonder whether it actually occurred. Perhaps he simply smacked his head on the toilet bowl and passed out in his chip-laden bile. Joji had moved his snarling mouth to Max’s exposed shoulder, dress strap continuously slipping down his arm. He licked the skin before biting into the pale flesh. Max’s foot went to kick but it merely wobbled, trembled, high heel hitting the floor with a clack as he groaned. It was an unexpected feeling that travelled straight to his dick and punched every nerve ending on the way. He arched his neck and heedlessly offered his shoulder again. Again it was bitten and this time his groan was a high girlish moan. No wonder he was the group bitch with a moan like that. Max finally decided -carding his hands through short black hair and pulling as if he’d finally lost his balance- that this was worth his participation.

“Fuck, do it again.” And Joji did, fumbling desperately in the labyrinth of fabric as he fastened like a leech to his skin. He wouldn’t find a limp dick this time, Max knew. His face was burning red and he’d begun to pant. From the other side of the house came the sound of smashed plate and hysterical laughter. It was hard to believe they were oblivious to this feeling. The hand-job he was given was sloppy and hindered by underwear but still nothing had ever felt this good. His hands pulled at Joji’s head, pressing against his bruising shoulder in selfish hedonism. The taps pressed hard against Max’s ass and, in the shameless heat of libido, he spread his legs. “Fuck me that’s good.”

“Dirty little slut.” Joji slurred. Max couldn’t deny it now but still he tore at his hair in retaliation. Joji hissed, eyes opening to finally look at him with a certain distaste as if he’d finally seen the face of someone he fucked in the dark. 

“Fucking gay fag” Max snapped. The term applied to either of them now and he was sure Joji knew that too. He was kissed again with the force of a punch and Max was pulling him closer, steadying himself against Joji, allowing and accepting whatever was going to happen to occur, no homo be damned. Consequences could be fucked as long as what he was doing kept feeling that good.

Then all at once Joji was gone, first the sinful mouth and then the hand after a final squeeze to the head of his cock. He was adjusting his tie and reapplying the ridiculous children’s sunglasses he’d tossed onto the bathroom counter. Max panted, waiting, not yet adjusting his legs for modesty.

            “Get your fucking ass out the sink. We got filming to do.” And Joji was gone, bathroom door left open on Max sporting half a boner. He pushed himself up with a groan, patting down the fluffed up dress and turning the tap on.

“Fucking cunt” He threw the water onto his cheeks and decided whether or not he’d vomit now or later. It could wait. The dress needed to come off but there was still a video to film and Max needed be a bitch to do it. He scanned the satin for particular stains that would’ve been embarrassing, finally readjusting the skirt and opening the cabinet behind the mirror. The lipstick lay between the dental floss and his cologne, a mismatching item that could’ve well passed as his girlfriend’s in the otherwise masculine cabinet. Max grabbed the tube and shut the door, moving his face close to the mirror and beginning to reapply. The previous coat he’d applied was probably on Joji now.   

 

 


End file.
